


Encore

by reliquiaen



Category: Adventure Time
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-21
Updated: 2015-02-21
Packaged: 2018-03-14 09:18:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3405365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reliquiaen/pseuds/reliquiaen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Sometimes there's really only one person who matters. Forget forty thousand. Just one is excellent. If it's the right person." - This was going to be a oneshot for my 'Let the Music Begin' thing. But I couldn't stop writing. The third chapter is optional, it ends just fine with two.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. All You Ever - Hunter Hayes

The words reverberated in her head: _Don’t let them change you_. It brought back all those things, all those long, late-night conversations – over phone-lines or bowls of popcorn, either one – all the encouragement and fear. It made her freeze up, hesitate, sigh. 

_Don’t ever let them pressure you into being a person that you’re not. Live that fairy tale in your head, Marceline, go for it, never let someone tell you that it’s not possible. But whatever happens, don’t become someone else._

At first, she wasn’t altogether sure what that meant, but after countless bar visits, media rants and a few tipsy accidents in the youth of the morning she’d begun to grasp the meaning in it. The cautioning, the anxiety, the plea. Had she changed? Was she now, years after first hearing that concerned voice – so quiet in the dimness of her room, so very frail and worried – had she changed? Had she become that person she’d been warned against?

She blinked slowly, sinking down onto the stool behind her, lights flashing, blinding her, turning the faces in the audience into blurry smudges. They were indistinguishable from one another, faceless, unknown. But they were here for her. 

Shifting against the wood, Marceline cleared her throat, feeling suddenly uncertain. They’d been doing this for weeks now, every other night a stadium of people would peer up at her and she’d sing. But tonight, it was different. She felt… well… different.

“How about,” she spoke softly into the microphone looped over her ear. “Tonight, we’ll do things a little different. Yeah?”

The crowd muttered in confusion; off-stage, out of the corner of her eye, she could see some of the staff running around, whispering about her words. One of them waved frantically, trying to catch her attention as she kicked her heels up onto the props of the stool. She ignored them, instead, squinted, trying to make out individual members of the audience. Some of those closest, pressed up against the stage, eyes wide, uncertain, she could see them properly. But they weren’t really people. They didn’t… they didn’t have faces to her. Not proper – _memorable_ – faces, just features, mushy and softened by the lights.

Marceline leaned back on the chair, pulling her bass guitar – bright red and spangled – further onto her lap. One hand fiddled with the knob, then she pushed it off her knee and turned to the staff off-stage. ‘Acoustic,’ she mouthed at him, waving a hand to hurry him along. He ran a hand through his hair, expression frazzled, then raced to grab one of her other assorted red instruments.

She motioned for him to leave the bass and get off, running fingers lovingly over the worn ruby paint of her most treasured instrument. This one, this beautiful guitar, the colour of a sunset in summer, of apples in an orchard during harvest, of crackling fire on a winter evening, of all her favourite things – this one was special. More so than the rest of her collection.

“Psst!” Off to her left an irritated voice seethed. Keila. “What are you doing?” she hissed.

Marceline folded her fingers around the microphone and shook her head. “Just… just let me do this,” she whispered in reply. “Consider it an early encore.”

Keila threw her hands in the air and stalked off, grumbling to a frowning Bongo. Marceline returned her gaze to the undistinguished audience, now fiddling with the strings. “Let me tell you all a story,” Marceline said lowly, her voice amplified around the stadium by speakers. “A story about a guitar.” She splayed her hand, the pick in her hand catching on the strings. _Blnnnnnng_ – it sang, the stand mic in front of her magnifying the sound. “This guitar, to be specific,” she went on. “I got this guitar in my senior year of high school from my very best friend.” She closed her eyes, remembering that afternoon. “A friend I’d known my whole life, who’d always been there for me, no matter what. Through all kinds of ups and downs, this friend was always right there. To slap idiots who put me down, to help me with my homework, to watch movies into the dead of the night when I broke my arm climbing the trellis under their window. Always. We lived next door to each other my whole life and when we finished school, we moved into the same apartment for college.”

The audience was hushed now, entranced. Even the stage staff had stopped, in her peripherals, Marceline could see Keila, one hand over her mouth, the other clasped white-knuckled around Bongo’s forearm. Marceline continued to pick at the strings, soft sounds – the slow, almost melancholy kind – drifting from the guitar to the microphone and out into the sea of upturned faces.

“This guitar was the most amazing gift I’ve ever been given,” she said stiffly, the fingers of her left hand running underneath the neck of the instrument where she knew words were still written. Black permanent marker read: _To Marceline, the most amazing person and talented musician I’ve ever had the privilege of arguing with._ Still there, after all these years. Clearing her throat, around a lump she rasped, “I haven’t seen my best friend in seven years. Not since we had a… rather heated debate in our second year of university. I don’t even remember what it was about. Probably something silly and pointless and if I still had their number you can bet everything you own that I would’ve called to apologise by now. I called every number I could think trying to find them but… but I was a pretty big jerk. I don’t suppose I’d be welcome now anyway.

“You’re all here to listen to us play music. But I’m the songwriter, and half the stuff I write never gets released. Music is my… I don’t know, my release I guess. This friend of mine, they always told me how singularly _awful_ I am at communication. Well I finally took their advice. And if anyone in the audience has a recording device, you get that out right now and start it up. This is my lyrical diary, and these are some songs I was too scared to release. Personal things, songs that I really hope get uploaded to the internet and go viral because I need this friend of mine to know just how sorry I am. Even if I’m not brave enough to see them face to face.”

She cleared her throat, risked a quick glance over at Keila, her eyes still big and terrified for her. Marceline sighed, shuffled on her seat and strummed a few chords. Then, acoustically – something she hadn’t done since they got a record deal – she sang.

“ _You gave me chances and I let you down._  
You waited for words that I couldn’t get out.  
I have no excuses for the way that I am.  
I was clueless and I couldn’t understand.”

Marceline found herself staring out at those faces, those thousands upon thousands of people who’d paid for something they weren’t going to get. She decided she didn’t care. She didn’t care one whit.

“ _That all that you wanted_  
And all that you needed  
Was a side of me I never let you see.  
And I wish I could love you  
And make you believe it,  
Because that’s all you ever wanted.  
It’s all you ever wanted.  
From me… from me…”

Be brave, she’d been told. Be brave and crazy and do stupid things. So long as you hit that target, reach that goal, accomplish your wildest dreams, then you’ve done well. But what have you got if you haven’t made mistakes? She hadn’t made the one mistake she wished she had. What if it wouldn’t have ended in tragedy?

“ _How could I be selfish or lost in my pride?_  
Afraid to be forward or just too scared to try.  
And now I’m without you and it took distance to see  
That losing you means losing everything.”

She should have taken that leap, regardless of what _might_ have been. She should have. She regretted that more than anything. Marceline’s eyes swept the audience, afraid to see disappointment.

“ _When all that you wanted_  
And all that you needed  
Was a side of me I never let you see.  
And I wish I could love you  
And make you believe it,  
Because that’s all you ever wanted  
It’s all you ever wanted from me.  
And is it too late and are you too far  
To turn around and let me be… let me be…?”

They weren’t. All their faces were rapt and Marceline closed her eyes. She scrunched them shut and concentrated on finishing the song. On being honest.

“ _And all that you wanted_  
And all that you needed  
I’ll show a side of me I never let you see.  
I wish I could love you  
And make you believe it.  
Because that’s all you ever wanted  
That’s all you ever wanted.  
And that’s all you ever wanted.  
It’s all you ever wanted.  
From me… oh, from me…”

The last note rang out across the stadium and for a long moment there was absolute silence. Then the crowd exploded into applause. She smiled thinly at them. Apparently heartbreak was a thing. A thing very much appreciated by people.


	2. I Miss You - The Henningsens

The night wore on then, much like it always did. In exactly the same fashion that every other concert wound to a close, so too did this one. The only difference was that this particular audience had been given something very, very special. They’d been given a glimpse into Marceline’s life, a look behind the darkened windows of her personal life. No other audience had ever had that opportunity.

She staggered off stage almost five minutes before the concert was scheduled to finish feeling drained. Feeling very much like a deflated balloon or… or a puppet with no strings. Limp, lifeless, ready to fall asleep and never wake up again. Marceline rubbed her eyes blearily, not even registering the sad smile Keila shot her way.

Oh, but Marceline was perfectly awake enough to hear the cries for an encore from outside. A senior member of her stage staff stopped hesitantly before her, blinking nervously.

“You have time for one more song,” he prompted.

Marceline glanced over at Keila who just shrugged. 

“My drums are already half way packed,” Bongo whined. “I can’t play now.”

“But…” Guy mused. “We do _technically_ have to play until the timer hits zero.”

Marceline mulled it over for a moment then sighed, “I’ll go. Get my guitar for me would you?” The staff man raced off to do just that, hurrying back seconds later with her faded red instrument. Keila gave her that odd sad look again. She rolled one shoulder, dismissing the expression and hastened back onto the stage.

She waved off-stage impatiently. It took a moment, but the lights snapped back on, blinding her momentarily. The audience – who by the looks hadn’t actually been expecting an encore – fell silent.

Marceline sucked in a deep breath and settled herself cross-legged on the floor, her stool having been removed a while ago. “I don’t have time for a long song, but how’s about a shorter one, eh? Another unreleased one. Sound good?”

The crowd roared their approval.

It earned a chuckle. “Well alright then.” Once again, Marceline closed her eyes. It might have been because she was tired, it might have been because she was feeling so drained and apathetic. But it most certainly did _not_ have anything to do with the songs she’d sung that night. Nope.

“ _I miss the simple conversations.  
I miss the silence in between.  
I miss the clatter in the kitchen,  
It always seemed to help me sleep.  
But most of all, I miss you._”

Alright, so maybe it had a little to do with the songs. She’d exposed an awful lot of herself tonight, more than she’d ever let any person see before. Well, there was only one person she’d ever divulged the secrets of her soul to. She desperately needed that. Needed a friend.

“ _I miss the way that you could move me  
With just a corner of your smile.  
The gentle way that you could save me  
With just the want to in your eyes.  
But most of all, I miss you._”

Keila was always there for her, true. And Bongo and Guy, sure, yeah. But that was different. They… no matter how hard they tried, wanted to, they could never, ever know her as well as she needed. She needed the one person with whom there was no need to speak. Silence was just perfect.

“ _I know I drew a line in the sand that I can’t cross back over.  
And I know, baby, you’ll be fine  
But if you don’t mind, I’ll never recover.  
Never recover._”

Now, even behind her closed eyes, she could feel the rasping of sandpaper in her throat, the pressure of wool on her vocal chords. She could feel the needles in the backs of her eyes, stinging with salt and tears and anguish. The loss long buried dredged up now for these people she didn’t know. Her finger twitched, skipped a chord.

“ _I miss the way you made me better.  
I miss the touch that made me melt.  
I miss being wrapped up in you, baby.  
Instead of always wrapped up in myself.  
But most of all, I miss you._”

Her hand shook on the neck of the guitar. Why was it always so hard for her to just say what she damn well meant? If she was capable of that, then none of this crap would be necessary. Then she wouldn’t write sappy songs and break down all the time. Marceline tried very hard to mentally berate herself, but she just couldn’t do it. It hurt too much.

“ _I know I drew a line in the sand that I can’t cross back over.  
And I know, baby, you’ll be fine  
But if you don’t mind, I’ll never recover.  
Never recover._”

And then her voice finally cracked. A waver in the lyrics, a word slightly too slurred, a clench in her throat she couldn’t sing around. Gritting her teeth, jaw tightening painfully, she went on. This was why she’d never recorded and released these songs. They hit a nerve and it made her ache all through her shattered heart.

“ _I miss the simple conversations.  
I miss the silence in between.  
I miss that little bit of hope,  
You might be coming back to me.  
But most of all, most of all,  
Most of all… I miss you…_”

The lights _cllllppppd_ off and Marceline tumbled upright and shuffled off-stage. Behind her, the audience screamed again. Now she was officially far too tired to do anything. Maybe she could collapse on the sofa and have a nap.

But no, Keila darted to her side. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah,” Marceline sighed. She ran a hand through her hair absently. “Just… uh… Where’s my coat? I’ll just go sit outside for a little bit.”

Bongo tossed a soft white jacket at her. With its high collar, she could tuck her hair down there, slap a floppy hat on her head and wander around without being recognised. It wasn’t fool proof, but a simple disguise was always best. Besides, she’d never been very curvy, she could pass as a dude without even trying.

Outside was a path that wound past the stadium heading across town to an apartment complex. Marceline had always wanted to live somewhere like that; you’d get a lot of shows for free. The music was so loud that you could stand on a balcony and listen to whichever shows you fancied. Of course, the flip side was all the shows you _didn’t_ want to hear. She could live with it though. It’d be great.

With a great exhalation of relief, Marceline collapsed onto the sidewalk and rested her head against the cold concrete of the building. There were a lot of stars visible tonight, which was odd really, in a city. She’d been told once, by the smartest person she knew, that there was too much concentrated pollution in cities for the stars to shine through. It was a shame really.

For… what… maybe twenty minutes, she just sat there, legs stretched out in front of her, staring at the stars. Counting them at one point, but when she got somewhere near fifty she lost track of which ones she already tallied. It made her chuckle. She closed her eyes again.

“Marceline?”

The soft voice seemed to echoed off the insides of her skull. It was so familiar and warm and it made her tingle. What she wouldn’t give to see the owner of that voice.

“Marceline, why are you sitting on the sidewalk?”

“Because there’s better air out here,” she mumbled. “It’s cleaner.”

The voice snorted. “Cleaner my left foot.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Marceline interjected. “There’s no such thing as clean air in a city. You already told me that, brainiac.”

There was silence for a moment. Then, “Are you alright?”

She blew air out heavily. “Psh, alright? Man, I haven’t been truly alright in six years.”

“Be serious.”

Marceline rolled her lip under. “I’m broken. All shot to shit. Hell, I’m talking to a voice in my head the owner of which I haven’t seen in the better part of a decade.” She sighed. “The things I’d take back if I could.” That last was the merest whisper. She wasn’t even sure she’d said it.

“I’m not a voice in your head, Marceline,” the voice said tartly. “Although at one point I thought I ought to be. Open your eyes, numbskull.”

Obligingly, Marceline opened one eye a crack. Then they both shot open and she lurched to her feet. She leaned right forward, eyes as wide as they would go now, startled and horrified. One trembling finger poked the apparition before her tentatively. Yup, solid flesh alright.

“Bonnie…?” she asked slowly. “Am I hallucinating?”

The face broke into a smile. “I’m not a hallucination, Marceline,” Bonnie said softly. To prove it, she jabbed Marceline in the shoulder. Bonnie rocked forward on her feet up onto her toes. If Marceline had suspected this woman was anything like the Bonnibel she went to school with, she would have said there was a hug in the offing. As it was, Bonnie rolled back onto her heels, still smiling vaguely.

Marceline rolled her shoulder uncomfortably. This was why she’d stopped calling. “So um…” she began warily, one hand absently rubbing at her neck, eyes glancing up at the stars again. “How’ve you been?”

Bonnie laughed at her. “Eloquent as ever, I see. Walk with me.” She stuck her hand out, at first Marceline thought it was for her, but that was a long time ago and this arm was pointing in the wrong direction anyway. 

She followed it with her eyes before finally noticing a little girl standing shyly not far away. She wore a black band tee that was several sizes too big for her, a soft grey hat and a ruffled skirt. The girl had black hair, wore little belted slippers and cream stockings and for a moment (with exceptions made for her hair colour), Marceline was positive she was looking back in time to the moment she first saw Bonnie. Standing on the footpath outside her house as her dad left, she followed the car down the street until she was bouncing on her toes in Marceline’s driveway. Five year old Bonnibel, caught somewhere between pyjamas and immaculate presentation in a moment of confusion and sorrow. Her father had never come back the day Marceline had accidentally stumbled into her picture perfect life. But they’d been friends after that.

This girl, maybe six years old, was not Bonnibel. Holy flying spongecake on a stick did she look just like her though. Marceline blinked dumbly at the girl, mouth open.

“This is Elizabeth,” Bonnie told her quietly. “My daughter.”

Marceline snapped to attention. Well that certain explained the resemblance. She swallowed hard around the lump suddenly in her throat. “Dad?” she rasped. 

Bonnibel looked away, down at the girl’s uncertain face. “He left when he found out I was pregnant,” she whispered. “She found your first demo in my things when we moved to the city and has been your biggest fan ever since.”

Honestly, Marceline had always hated children. They were loud and messy and just mucked everything up. In no future had she ever entertained the idea of having children. But this girl reminded her so much of Bonnibel that it was hard to think of her as a proper child. She was… Well, she was a miniature Bonnie. How dangerous could she be? Carefully, Marceline knelt before the girl and offered a hand. “Hey there,” she murmured. “You’re Elizabeth Bennet, huh? I’m Marceline Abadeer.”

The girl nodded and put her tiny palm against Marceline’s, eyes big as they stared at her. “You don’t look like Marceline,” she whispered. “You look like a boy.”

“Libby,” Bonnie scolded, exasperated.

“Nah, it’s a’ight, Bon,” Marceline laughed, looking over her shoulder at an offended Bonnibel. “As I recall, you accused me of being a boy a couple of times too.” She leaned down towards Elizabeth. “I wear my hair all tucked up like this so I don’t get recognised,” she confided softly. “Fame’s not all it’s cracked up to be, yeah?”

A tentative smile crept across Elizabeth’s face. “Yeah?”

Marceline nodded. “It’s kinda crummy, actually. You get a lot of rabid fans all up in your face, invading your personal bubble. It’s gross. Gotta defend my bubble.”

The smile widened. “You don’t like being famous?”

Exhaling heavily, Marceline mused over that question for a long moment. Then, “In my dreams, performing in front of a stadium of forty thousand people was the best thing I could imagine,” she paused there, casting another look over her shoulder at Bonnie, her throat catching. “But sometimes,” she went on slowly; “Sometimes there’s really only one person who matters. Forget forty thousand. Just one is excellent. If it’s the right person.”

Elizabeth nodded, solemn, beyond her years. “Is that why you’re out here now? Because of fans?”

Marceline beamed at her. “Partly,” she confessed. “And partly because I poured my heart out in there tonight, showed the whole crowd all of my scars, all the places where I haven’t quite healed and it hurt. I don’t like talking about my _feelings_. Ask your mother. She knows how terrible I am at that.”

“You know mum?” Libby asked, her eyes widening somewhat.

Marceline straightened, spinning on Bonnibel. “Your daughter listens to my music and you never told her… _anything_?”

Bonnie shrugged. “She didn’t need to know. I hardly know you anymore, Marceline.”

“Oh, come on, Bon,” she said tiredly. “You will always know me best of anyone. Always.”

The blonde woman shrugged. “Time changes people, Marceline.”

“Not me. I’m exactly the same stupid, brazen, impish, weirdo you left behind seven years ago. Only with a few more scars and a lot more regrets.” She turned back to Elizabeth. “Your mother and I grew up together,” she told the girl quietly. “With the exception of maybe five years when we were kids that don’t count anyway cause you don’t remember any of that junk, and seven years most recently, we’ve known each other our whole lives.”

“Was mum the one you called your best friend tonight?” Elizabeth asked shrewdly. Oh hell yes, this was Bonnibel’s daughter to a T. All brains and logic and far too much insight to be anything but kind of creepy and no small amount of uncomfortable.

“Heh, yes,” Marceline admitted. “Yes she was. She gave me that guitar, wrote a little message on the back and everything.”

“I can’t believe you still have it,” Bonnie whispered. “After all that.”

“Despite whatever I said that day, Bon, I don’t hate you,” Marceline replied just as softly. She turned back to fully face Bonnibel now. “I have _missed_ you every day since I walked out. Every single day. It was the dumbest, most ridiculously _idiotic_ thing I have ever done. And I’ve done a lot of dumb things.” She slumped a little then, staring at the space between her feet and Bonnie’s. Once it would never have seemed so… so… so unbridgeably, mind-bogglingly, vast. Once there were no barriers, no such thing as a personal space they didn’t both share. “Every day since we went professional that summer, those words… what you said, it’s been there, in the back of my mind. You have _always_ been the voice in my head, Bonnie.”

Surprisingly, Bonnie shuffled forward half a step, Marceline’s gaze snapping back to her face. “I’m sorry too,” Bonnie muttered. “I was unfair and overly harsh. Do you really not remember what it was about? The argument I mean.”

“Haven’t the foggiest.”

It almost sent her reeling when Bonnie grinned. “Me neither. I recall saying something awful, the look on your face, the tone when you replied. But I don’t know what we fought about. All I know is, since then, there’s been something missing. Libby’s dad, I met him about a month after you left, in eight months we were married, but when he found out about her, when he found your album in the drawer, when my mum died… he just left.”

Marceline felt hollow. After all the junk that had happened to Bonnie – her dad leaving and all that – it didn’t seem fair that the same thing happened to her daughter too. Life was a funny, cruel thing.

“I’m sorry, Bonnie,” she said. “I’m sorry I ever left, sorry I deleted your number, sorry about everything.”

“Me too. I’ll only forgive you if you forgive me though,” Bonnibel warned.

Marceline deflated. “Deal.”


	3. Like A Song

Bonnie motioned ahead of her. “Will you walk with us?”

“Of course.”

“Hey, that song… what words didn’t you tell me?” Bonnie asked, bending to straighten Libby’s shirt.

She stuck her hands in her pockets and stared up at the sky again. “I do still suck at words, you know.”

“So be evasive and round-about. I’ve always been able to work you out, Abadeer.”

Smiling then, because it was true, Marceline said, “I couldn’t ever tell you how much you meant to me. Pretty sure you were always the best thing in my life, Bonnie, and I never told you. I was never brave enough to risk that, to put myself on the line when I was so convinced you’d hate me. So I just never told you.”

Bonnie just nodded. But there was something in her posture – in the angle of her shoulders, in the way her eyes watched Marceline – that told her more would be said later. For now, she’d ignore it.

Marceline crouched then, in front of Elizabeth. “How old are you, squirt?” she asked as the little girl yawned.

“Six,” came the reply, muffled around her fist.

“Is that too old for a piggy-back?”

Libby’s face lit up, an answer in and of itself. “No way. Uncle Finn gives me piggy-backs when we visit him.”

“Well, how about you get up on my shoulders right now then, yeah? I’ll take you home.”

With a squeal of delight, Libby scrabbled up onto Marceline’s back, arms around her neck, legs around her waist, head on her shoulder. Holding onto her knees, Marceline felt her relax almost straight away, as though standing up of her own volition was the only thing that kept her awake.

“I thought you hated kids,” Bonnie said quietly as they walked.

“Any kid of yours isn’t a proper child, Bon,” she fired back. “She’ll be counting pi out to a million and reciting the periodic table before she’s ten.”

“She already knows the periodic table.”

“My point is made.”

They fell silent then, just kept walking. It took a while, but eventually Marceline realised they were heading for that apartment complex she’d noted earlier. The one that would have awesome seats for any concert at the stadium.

“Do you live there?” she asked, gesturing in the handicapped way of someone with their arms tight around the legs of a little girl getting a piggy-back.

“Yeah.”

“Why the hell did you pay for tickets to the show then?” She paused then, thinking. “Wait, why were you even at the show in the first place?”

Bonnie sighed. “Because Libby is your number one fan and… and I missed you too. But I couldn’t call you. I tried. Turns out I’m not very brave either.”

Marceline chuckled. How about that?

As Bonnie was unlocking the door to her apartment (she didn’t even question it when Marceline followed her inside and up the stairs), she spoke softly into the lock, “How much _did_ I mean to you?” The words were so hushed Marceline had to lean in to catch them.

“First of all, not past tense,” Marceline corrected her. “Never, _never_ , past tense.” Bonnie gave her a flat look, knowing she was stalling. “Secondly…” The door swung inwards, and Marceline used that as an excuse to delay her answer. “Where’s Elizabeth sleep?”

“Down the hall and to the left. Do you want tea? I have camomile. And I do expect a proper answer, Marceline.” Bonnie was already busy boiling the kettle. When asked about camomile tea Marceline’s answer would always be ‘yes’. It was a silly question.

Once Libby was tucked up in bed (shoes very carefully removed beforehand), Marceline sunk onto a stool in the kitchen. A cup of tea was set out in front of her before Bonnie sat down beside her, eyes just exactly as penetrating and soul devouring as she remembered.

“My answer?” she prompted.

“Doesn’t matter anymore,” Marceline hedged, shifting in her seat.

“It does to me.”

All of a sudden, the steam still coiling about the spout of the kettle was insanely interesting.

“I need you to open your mouth and spit out those words,” Bonnie said just a little harshly. “I can make you angry. You know words come out when you’re mad. Just don’t think about it.”

“I…” she couldn’t do it. Her throat closed over the second it realised what she was about to say, refusing to let the words out. Marceline sighed. “It’s pathetic and cheesy and – in light of everything – kind of pointless.”

“Oh come on,” Bonnie growled. “I’ve been a witness to fifty shades of Marceline Abadeer. Nothing they say in the tabloids could ever surprise me. Not that any of it is true. I know you better than to believe any of that rubbish. My point is: I’ve seen you pathetic and cheesy and pointless. I’ve even seen you cliché.”

“Bonnie,” Marceline warned. “I’m pretty sure I ruined our friendship, I’m not going to be the reason we stop talking again.”

This time, the look Bonnibel gave her was so flat it was ironed. It was pancakes and paper and all kinds of other very _flat_ things. “Please,” she snorted. “I’ve given _birth_ , Marceline. You can’t break me with a few words.”

 _Sing it like a song, Marceline,_ her little inner voice said. “I love you.”

_That was not a song._

Bonnie blinked. “Like what? Like a sister, like your best friend? Like what?”

“Like I want… I…” her throat clenched again. “Like I want to sweep you off your feet and carry you into the sunset, cliché type. I’ve been in love with you my whole life.”

Bonnibel sighed. It didn’t sound exasperated or angry or resigned or anything like that. It sounded… it sounded… Marceline looked back at her. _Content_ , her brain supplied happily.

“Good.” That was all Bonnie said. This time, Marceline blinked at her in confusion. For the longest time, they sat in silence, Marceline waiting for something else to be said.

It wasn’t.

“Good?” she asked, trying hard not to shriek, to stay calm. “Good what? What’s good?”

“Good,” Bonnie said again. “I was kind of worried you didn’t. And that would be awkward.”

Marceline frowned. “Why?”

“Because I love you too,” she replied like it was nothing. “Always have. I think that might be why my marriage failed.”

Her brain had a field day with that one. _Oh yeah, being in love with some random chick who sings in a band… that’s exactly what you want your husband to find out. Great. Marriages are built on stuff like that. Sure would kill the libido, that’s for damn sure. Turns out you’re gay for some girl and wow does that make your husband question_ everything _that’s ever happened. Wow. Just… just wow. How do you even get married to a guy when you’re still hot for a woman anyway? What even? Who made_ that _stupid-ass decision? ___

__It took a lot of effort for Marceline to shut down that line of thinking. It wasn’t helping. “Ok,” she said instead of any of those questions her brain had provided. Her heart didn’t know whether to be confused and fluttery, or elated and fluttery. She let it do both._ _

__Bonnie smiled. “Stay with me?” she asked._ _

__Marceline lifted an eyebrow. “That’s very forward of you. I think it took you nearly five years before you even let me sleep over at your house when we were kids.”_ _

__“I know you a lot better now,” Bonnie said, standing and heading for the couch. “I know a lot more about a lot of things now. Come on, we’ll watch a movie.”_ _

__The smile Bonnibel was wearing made her heart soar. It did backflips and gymnastics and drifted around in the upper atmosphere for a while in the low gravity. It pounded far too hard in her ears; it skipped far too many beats to be healthy. It was just in shock. Happy, overjoyed, wow-is-this-really-happening shock._ _

__“Just like old times,” Marceline croaked._ _

__Bonnibel laughed and Marceline’s soul trembled. A shiver of lightning and sun flooding through her, down her spine, tingling on the ends of her nerves. And in its wake, her heart was healed. No more cracks, no more fragments missing, taken, left behind when she’d left Bonnie. She was whole again._ _

__Marceline turned her phone off and spent the night._ _


End file.
